[ ... Lothlorien ... ]


Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin huddled close together, seeking warmth and comfort. The strength of their little Hobbit hearts gave them a faith and resilience often overlooked by the other races of Middle Earth, but now, they knew only sadness. Although overwhelmed by the glory that was Lothlorien, it was not enough to pierce the gloom of Gandalf's passing. Quiet sniffling could be heard, followed by low, soothing tones spoken in the language of friendship, a friendship stronger than any metal, or stone.

Boromir sat nearby, watching the Hobbits with worry in his eyes. He had quickly come to care for these strange little men, full of life and vigor that it seemed wrong for them to grieve so. Behind the concern, though, lay his own fear. Gandalf was gone, the Fellowship already broken while still so fragile in its forging, and the haunting tone of the Lady Galadriel's voice in his mind mere moments ago reminded him of his own faults. Shading his eyes behind ragged hair of tarnished gold, he shivered, but resolved in his heart to protect the Hobbits, no matter what. Surely, he could hold to that promise, Ring or no Ring.

Gimli had long ago nestled himself between the fat roots of a tree, as close to his sacred earth as he could get here in the home of the thrice-damned elves. His people had known the Gray Wizard, for certain, Gandalf was known amongst all the races of Middle Earth; a wise old man, eccentric and lively, yet seeming forever burdened by some dark secret. He grieved in his own way, neither with the tears of the Hobbits nor the songs of the Elves. He sighed, fingering the blade of his axe, ears perking as the tone of the elves' song changed.

Silver notes danced upon the wind, seeming brighter even than the stars and gentle lights of Lothlorien. As news of the events in Moria spread, the tune the elves sang changed from their soft trilling of daily joy to the somber requiem for one they viewed as their own.

Legolas' blond head turned upward at the sound, chalice forgotten in his hands as a sad half-smile quirked the corners of his mouth.

"A lament for Galdalf."

A roughened voice spoke behind him. "What do they say about him?"

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he cast his eyes to the ground. "I have not the heart to tell you. For me, the grief is still too near." The party was silent as he raised his head once more, golden honeyed voice dripping from his lips as he joined in song. His haunting baritone filling an empty place in the music, bringing tears to the eyes of Legolas' companions.

One full verse was completed before the elf faltered, breathing shallow and face turned in sorrow. His blue eyes were heavy with a sadness long unexpressed. "I... cannot."

With a swift turn, Legolas slipped off into the night, moving soudlessly through the trees as only one of his kind could do. The others watched after him. Long had they suspected that Gandalf and Legolas had known one another before the Council at Rivendell, given the friendly, almost parental pride the gray wizard took in the golden elf. While none of the Fellowship had known Gandalf's true age, it could not be denied that his wisdom transcended the knowledge of ancient men, and many of the elven folk. Perhaps, then, it

should not have come as a surprise that Legolas grieved so deeply for their wizard companion.

Aragorn watched the elf depart, keeping his eyes on the telltale flash of bright hair between the trees, until even that disappeared into the darkness, leaving him feeling bereft. He had known Legolas for many years now, often enjoying the other's company when he made passage to Rivendell bearing news from his father, King Thranduil.

---

No matter how he tried, he could not block out the despairing elven voices rising above the night, his hearing far too keen for that respite. Part of him desperately wanted to, to be allowed to grieve in peace; and yet, his very soul cried in both anger and desperation at the gods for allowing Gandalf to be lost.

Legolas' fall of hair shielded his face from others who would look on. Elven grief was a very private thing, deep enough to tear the souls of other races to tattered shreds should they bear witness to an elf in soul-deep pain. Tears were rare among his kind, and yet he could feel the sting behind his eyes. All too soon, two silver tears streaked over his pale cheeks, tracing a path of sadness across the ethernal youth of his face.

For you, Mithrandir. Only and ever, for you.

Ah, Gandalf, many years have you watched over me, asking nothing in return for your teachings. All my life, I have known the gentle hand of your guidance; shaping me, preparing me. I can only hope beyond hope that I have become someone you could be proud of. Legolas balanced on the edge of an overturned mallorn tree, face now turned to the star-sprinkled canopy. In his people's songs, he could hear that kindly voice, a smile always coloring his tone, reaching out from the past.

'Do not misunderstand me, boy, I am pleased to see you again, but a deep ache grows in my heart at the thought of you along on this journey.' Legolas had been confused, and more than a little hurt, by Gandalf's words. The wizard turned to see a suspicious sparkle in young elven eyes. Young. An aged hand reached out and brushed across golden skin. 'You are so young, yet, my boy, still a child in the eyes of your own people. I do not wish to see you rush to your death, for this journey may well be the death of us all.'

'Then I would be honored to die with you, at your side, Gandalf.' Legolas' words sent pain lancing through his companion's heart. He knew the elf would not resist this mission, neither would he resist the opportunity to travel with him again, but he despaired of putting the boy in danger. He was as his own.

'Perhaps we shall both see this quest through to the end, then.' Gandalf's large, weighty hand rested on a narrow shoulder and the wizard was graced with a brilliant smile reaching all the way to bright blue eyes.

We should have, Gandalf, we should have. You placed your trust in me and my bow, and I failed you in the hour of greatest need. A flood of precious elven tears would never quell his guilt.

---

The gentle rustle of leaves alerted him to another's presence. His keen ears recognized the distinct pattern of Aragorn's tread long before he came into view at the edge of the small clearing.

The strong back curved over in a posture he never thought possible of one of the Valar's children, greeted Aragorn as he stepped forward, the mossy ground muffling his heavier human footsteps. Golden hair glimmered in the sprinkled faery lights of Lothlorien, the ancestors of his friend's people sharing their grief with those still walking Middle Earth.

Although loathe to break the silence, Aragorn could not bear to see such suffering in one he held most dear.

"Legolas?"

Eyes he knew to be brighter than the sky at dawn would not meet his gaze. Ever closer he crept, until he could kneel at the elf's side, a battle-scarred hand alighting on a slender shoulder. Aragorn could feel the spidersilk-fine strands of blond hair against his skin. He managed to control his trembling.

Legolas stood with the gentle contact, as though the touch would pass the depths of his grief on to another. "A great one is gone, Aragorn, and the Fellowship suffers for it."

"You suffer, Legolas. Speak not to me of the pain of others, for I would hear of yours, and soothe it where I may." Aragorn spoke boldly, his words as much a surprise to himself as to his companion. The bright eyes he had so wished to see upon arriving in the glen, now turned to him, wide and blinking.

Aragorn caught the glint of starlight in the tears that painted Legolas' face. They did nothing to diminish his beauty. Elbereth's own hand surely must have fashioned Legolas from the light of Ithilas, for in that moment his radiant Light put all of Lothlorien to shame.

"You mourn, Legolas. As bright a soul as yours was never meant for such pain."

The elf drew a startled breath, hearing the voice of his dear Mithrandir speaking to him from the past. 'The brightness of your soul was never meant for such pain, Legolas.' Even after a century of living, the memory of that moment still burned in his mind.

---

The poor creature would not survive. He knew that deep in his heart, and yet, he wished to save it. He had not the talent for healing that Lord Elrond possessed, yet he called forth from memory every lesson he had learned at the Peredhil's knee those many summers ago.

It was in vain. As the gentle doe drew her last breath, large, liquid eyes offered her thanks to him before darkening. Long he sat with her delicate head in his lap, stroking the downy fur of her neck, singing softly in celebration of her life.

A large shadow crossed over him, and he recognized the comforting shape of Mithrandir's crooked, pointed hat. The creak of old joints a familiar sound as the Istari knelt at his side, his tangled gray beard curling in his lap. A large, yet gentle hand covered Legolas' shoulder.

"I could not save her, wise one." A quiet sniffle punctuated his sentence. Small shoulders trembled under the weight of self-appointed guilt.

"It was her time, and you did all that you could. You eased her pain at the end, and that is all anyone can ask."

Another sniffle, and soon, Mithrandir found himself with an armful of trembling elf-child, tears of sorrow dampening his beard and neck. He wound his arms around the young soul, seeking to shelter him from all the hurt in the world of the living.

"There, there, now, child. The brightness of your soul was never meant for such pain, Legolas." He gently smoothed the blond hair, and with no effort at all, scooped the boy in his arms, carrying him back to his own quarters.

---

"I did not mean to offend you, Legolas." Aragorn began, hands rising to shoulder height. Uncertain of his welcome now, he turned to leave.

"You did not offend me, Estel, you simply reminded me of something Gandalf once said." Legolas' voice was hushed, lyrically quiet with his sorrow. He felt the Ranger move closer, the presence of the Man a palpable thing in the fae glade of Lothlorien's silver evening.

"Something so disturbing it made you weep?" The man's stubbled chin tilted in an inquisitive gesture, his blue eyes betraying his concern. Legolas breathed a slight laugh as the corners of his lips quirked ever so slightly.

"Nay, friend. The memory was warm. My tears are for the present, not the past."

Aragorn studied the elf's posture, a marked difference from his stance upon entering the clearing. Long blong hair cascaded over square shoulders, made broad and strong by a lifetime of mastering the art of archery. The sloping back, straight and proud, tapering to slender hips only to end in strong legs and swift feet.

As Legolas turned to regard him, he breathed a prayer to the Valar themselves for the beauty they'd created. The blond elf's pointed ears poked through his cornflower silk hair, only serving to enhance the contrast of his starling blue eyes and pale skin. Rose lips parted as if in question to his direct gaze.

Aragorn could see the the nimble grace of his elven friend keeping evey line of his body taut.

"The present disturbs you so, but it is more than the loss of Gandalf." He began again, still studying the changing of the lovely face before him as he spoke. "Isn't it." It was not a question.

"The shadow of the Ring grows, as does Sauron's power. I can feel it all around me." A slight tremble moved through the graceful body and Legolas wrapped his arms about himself, as though he could ward off the chill of evil with such a simple gesture.

"It will consume Middle Earth and all her inhabitants. All will fall to darkness should our quest fail, and the land shall suffer for it. Even now, I can hear the dying cries of lands overrun by orcs." The blond head turned and the immortal gaze met his own. "I fear for you. The Ring calls to you, to your mortal blood."

Blue eyes threatened to spill tears once more and Aragorn realized just how dear this creature was to him. He saw the same truth reflected in the watery eyes that shared his gaze.

He slipped up beside the long, lean figure of his elven companion. "There is no desire in my heart for the power of the Ring." Something of his thoughts must have melted into his voice, for Legolas turned, an elegant eyebrow raised in question.

"Oh?" His blue eyes sparkled beneath a fringe of dark lashes, the light of elven youth caught in their depths. "And what is it you desire then... deep in your heart?"

Aragorn's blood quickened in his veins, the timbre of Legolas' smooth voice setting a new rythym for his triphammer heart, something soothing yet exciting at the same time, a melding of comfort and anticipation. He answered with the crystal truth, for what else could he have given.

"You."

A roughened hand, battle-worn and scarred, reached up to caress petal-soft skin, thumb idly tracing over a high, delicate cheekbone, and as the elf's hand moved to draw a lazy circle on that strong wrist, Middle Earth spared a few moments in the encroaching darkness for the gentle light of first love to spark.